This may surprise you, but: I'm not going to type the word "Pacey." Well, except for right there. And, briefly, here: I've decided we need a Diane Kruger piece that does not mention Josh Jackson's real name or Dawson's Creek alter-ego, in part because if he, his mother, his agent, or his lawyer ever reads through our Diane Kruger archive and notes how often we discuss what a hot-ass accessory he is, he might take out a restraining order on us, and THEN how are we supposed to go through his garbage and harvest all his nose-hair trimmings and used Q-Tips? We'll NEVER finish the diorama of our theoretical wedding without them! So, no Pacey. Starting... now.
Fortunately, there are other things to chat about here.
[Photo: FlynetOnline.com]
Like, say, how it appears Diane is trying to honor her absent boyfriend by combining their wardrobes. Or is performing as the Emcee in a dinner-theater version of Cabaret that didn't have the budget for all that white makeup. Or leaving a wedding at which she served as the best man and then lost her tux jacket in a rowdy, dangerous conga line. Or how I am wondering if she's on her way into one of those Prohibition-era restaurants where the tables flip over and suddenly everyone is playing poker illegally and smoking cigars -- until the police arrive, and of course the tables turn over again and the cops are hoodwinked because they don't think to look underneath them, because said cops are the only people in the world who've never read anything or seen any gangster films. Maybe the reason Diane's pants don't seem to fit that well around her midsection is that she's hiding a weapon, a hip flask, and about thirty-five Aces. OR, how with an adjustment here and there to the fit and maybe a ritual torching of her suspenders, she might even pull this off.
See? Plenty to discuss without mentioning That Name. I feel triumphant.
Fortunately, there are other things to chat about here.
[Photo: FlynetOnline.com]
Like, say, how it appears Diane is trying to honor her absent boyfriend by combining their wardrobes. Or is performing as the Emcee in a dinner-theater version of Cabaret that didn't have the budget for all that white makeup. Or leaving a wedding at which she served as the best man and then lost her tux jacket in a rowdy, dangerous conga line. Or how I am wondering if she's on her way into one of those Prohibition-era restaurants where the tables flip over and suddenly everyone is playing poker illegally and smoking cigars -- until the police arrive, and of course the tables turn over again and the cops are hoodwinked because they don't think to look underneath them, because said cops are the only people in the world who've never read anything or seen any gangster films. Maybe the reason Diane's pants don't seem to fit that well around her midsection is that she's hiding a weapon, a hip flask, and about thirty-five Aces. OR, how with an adjustment here and there to the fit and maybe a ritual torching of her suspenders, she might even pull this off.
See? Plenty to discuss without mentioning That Name. I feel triumphant.
